Man Of War

This morning, however, at St George’s church in Hanover Square, there was not a uniform to be seen, and the music was the organ’s, though a rather grand instrument on which Handel himself had played (the organist this morning played sober glees). Indeed, to Hervey’s taste, the whole church was rather too austere, singularly lacking in ornament except for the gilded names of rectors and churchwardens on the panels of the gallery, and a reredos-painting of the Last Supper, which he thought very dull compared with those he had seen in Rome. It was, however, not an unhappy interior: the late-morning sun streamed through the brilliant plain glass of the Venetian window above, and there were flowers, fashionable hats and silks.

There was an equal number, a dozen or so, on either side of the nave, some standing, some sitting in the high box pews – Hervey’s immediate family and brother officers, including Lord Holderness, and some of Kezia’s family and friends, from both town and country. Georgiana wore dark blue, and yellow ribbons, the only touch of regimental colour among the congregation (Elizabeth had taken some pains with the millinery), for even Private Johnson wore plain clothes. And there was Kat, in a turban and a magnificent pelisse of green silk, a beauty to turn every head, male and female.

If only Peto had been there – whole or in his invalid state, and Elizabeth at his side . . . Hervey, standing with Lord John Howard between the soaring Corinthian columns at the top of St George’s elegant steps, greeting the guests as they arrived, could not give up the idea of a reconciliation, even now. The thought of his friend’s lonely return to Norfolk, the inevitable if gradual rejection by society (for a man with such disfigurement, even with a Bath Star at his breast, could be no adornment to their pretty world) . . . this saddest of thoughts exercised him more each day. Indeed there were moments when he did not think he could return to the Cape, leaving his old friend thus.

As the appointed hour approached, Hervey and Lord John Howard took their places at the front of the nave. And soon after eleven o’clock, Kezia, on the arm of her father, with her attendant, a married cousin, began her decorous procession towards the chancel, the organ accompanying them with something Hervey did not recognize, nor hardly even notice. They had spoken little of the arrangements, for he had understood the difficulty, perhaps, of the undertaking: his own wedding, notwithstanding its bitter-sweet memories, was some time past, whereas Kezia’s must yet be vivid in her mind’s eye, and that of her family (although it had lately occurred to him how similar were their circumstances, each having lost a marriage partner, violently and within a year of being wed, and each with a child made at once unknowledgeable of a parent). He turned to glimpse his bride.

Kezia’s appearance was indeed arresting. She wore a dress of levantine, narrow coral stripes on cream, lowwaisted as was the fashion, the skirt spread full at the hem; and in her hair were flowers and ribbons above a lace cap. If he had been capable of admitting it, he would have owned that her appearance was in truth as pleasing to him as that of his first bride. And a curious triumphing sense overcame him, a strange notion that there advanced on him Lady Lankester, the widowed wife of a regimental hero, himself the brother of a fallen paragon, and that she would retire as Mrs Matthew Hervey . . . He could not explain it (or if he could he would not wish to), but it was as if he crossed a threshold, perhaps one that he had not before even recognized. It thrilled and invigorated him to a remarkable degree. And he wished devoutly – no, irreverently – for its consummation.

As the bridal procession reached the east end of the nave, Kezia turned to acknowledge her husband-to-be. It was with a look more of composure than of joy, but, he was sure, it was a look of the surest beginnings.

‘Dearly beloved,’ began the rector, the Reverend Mr Hodgson, whose ministration Kezia had been at some pains to secure since his plurality of livings made his attendance variable and by no means consistent.

Hervey now forced himself to listen with due attention to the solemn words. He had heard them many a time, and always with due regard, for as the Prayer Book said, they were gathered together in the sight of God.